


Covalent Bonds

by PenelopeWaits



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Humor, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Graphic Violence, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/pseuds/PenelopeWaits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Q share a bit of brotherly heart to heart while they are captured.  Our favorite BAMF ex-soldiers arrive for a rescue.  An absolutely silly vignette with no socially redeeming value.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covalent Bonds

Covalent Bonds

It was abysmally boring and that was very bad for both of them. Rather than expose their present emotional lability, they had kept silent for the last 4 hours, 37 minutes and 12 seconds. The clock was one of two items in the room beside themselves. The other item was the monitor their captors had left on as the only means of communication between the lab and the decontamination room they had inhabited for the last 5 hours and 3 minutes.

They had argued about who was responsible for this mess for the first 14 minutes and that had been reasonably entertaining but then one of them (it had been Cearbhall, Sherlock remembered viciously), had mentioned Mycroft and it had all deteriorated. They were quite agreed he would never pay the ransom, but Q, as he preferred these days, (not that Sherlock ever got to choose a letter for a nickname, he hated being the middle child), thought Mikey would call MI6 and send in some commandos whereas Sherlock was quite certain they would rot in here until the end of time or chocolate cake, whichever came first.

Their captors had removed their phones, pens, jackets, pocket squares, trousers, shoes, checked their teeth for caps and even, quite ignobly, removed the sub-dermal tracking chip from Q’s left hip, just above his arse cheek. In fact, they had nothing but their Egyptian cotton shirts and quite fetching pants (Sherlock’s deep aubergine, Q’s a darling shade of lavender). They were trussed with zip ties and sitting on the floor. Boring.

Eventually, Cearbhall, being a typical baby of the family in this at least, gave in to his need to entertain and began a conversation again.

“Is yours a good cook?”

“What? Who? Whom are you talking about?”

“Your doctor, of course. Is he a good cook? James is always insisting we go out. Does yours cook?”

“No. Yes. Well, he’s quite good at tea.”

“High tea?”

“No, don’t be absurd. Ordinary tea with PG tips and Hob-nobs or Jammie Dodgers. He’s not fancy. He makes nice toast in the morning.”

“Not dinners?” asked Q, wistfully.

“Pasta sometimes. He does do a nice fry up, though.”  


"Oh, that’s the one thing James does, especially if he’s stressed. I wonder if it’s a military thing?”

“Hmm,” answered Sherlock. He had not contemplated previously the similarities between his doctor, (no, the doctor, no, not The Doctor. Blast) and the double 0 agent. That might be diverting. Another question then, “Does yours get achy when he’s restless?”

“Achy? He’s not that old!” pouted Q, defensively.

“Well, they’re of an age, obviously. John has these war injuries and he gets quite achy if you don’t keep him busy. Querulous as well, and he putters about cleaning. You have to keep giving him something to do, like a brounie. It’s always work or food with him.”

“Oh, he is very like a brounie, isn’t he, all small and fuzzy? Maybe it’s the Scots bit. Of course James is Scottish, too. Have you tried sex, then? I find that works best with James, overall, when he’s fussy and threatening to drink.”

Sherlock shut up like an oyster and turned his face quickly away. “No,” he muttered.

“No, it doesn’t work or no, you haven’t tried it?”

“The latter. John is not interested,” said Sherlock, curtly.

“Not interested in sex? That is surprising! James is quite insatiable. One time in the elevator…”

“I am not listening! La-la-la-la-la..” sang Sherlock. In his mind palace, he firmly stuck his fingers in his ears.

Cearbhall, who found nothing strange in his brother’s behavior, bumped their shoulders together and said, “No, no listen, it’s quite a good pacifier. Maybe you could convince him to try, despite being in his dotage.”

“John is not in his dotage! He is quite sexually active, a regular libertine, but he is not interested in sex with me.”

“Why ever not? Most people are! You were quite the Caravaggio before the morphine weakened your timber and you must have recovered from that by now.”

“John is absurdly straight, piously heterosexual. He does not get off with men, even me.”

“Are you certain?” pursued Q. “He looks at you as if he might do…”

“We had that conversation early on. I may have implied…”  
“You turned him down, didn’t you? You got all snooty and posh and turned him down. Well you have only yourself to blame then!”

“I’m aware. You needn’t point it out,” huffed Sherlock.

It was at that moment the wall monitor crackled to life. The door to the laboratory outside burst open and a tall, rugged blonde hugging a L85A2 into his shoulder, sprayed high covering fire across the room as a small man moved in, crouched beneath him and taking single shots to the head. Two guards were down in an instant. The lead scientist lunged for the switch that would pump nitrogen and cyanide gas into the decontamination chamber, but a shot to his right shoulder spun him around as one to his left thigh felled him. 

It would take a frame-by-frame replay to discern exactly what followed. The remaining guard crouched behind a lab bench and returned fire even as three lab techs threw their arms up in surrender. The taller rescuer, now clearly discernable as Bond, moved right while his smaller companion scrambled left. Someone got a round into a fire extinguisher and half the room was obscured. Bond continued with covering fire from behind a tall mass spectrophotometer as the small man slithered out of sight across the floor on his stomach. The room fell silent for several seconds. Finally, the last guard poked his head up to take another shot. It was his last act on earth. 

Two of the lab techs made a dash for the open door. One was efficiently rugby tackled into the other by a Scottish wildcat and in seconds all three techs were prone on the lino and hogtied in a professional manner. The only sound in the room was the panting of the two ex-soldiers left standing.

As the Holmes brothers continued to gaze at the monitor from their prison, Bond and Watson moved back to back, sweeping the room for any lingering assailants. Finding none, they stood a bit straighter and Watson leaned back against Bond, resting his head between the taller man’s shoulder blades, shaking it slowly from side to side as a mad giggle escaped his mouth.

Bond craned his neck and looked fondly down at the blond and grey head. He murmured with affection, “I’d forgotten what a good time you are, John. We should do this much more often.”

“Ta, James,” said the doctor, absently petting his assault rifle, “For a good time, call…” and without saying another word, he flashed his thousand-mega-watt smile and blatantly batted his fair lashes over his lapis lazuli eyes. 

Bond pivoted, bringing himself face to face with the gamin grin of his old friend. Slowly, he leaned in, never breaking eye contact.

The stillness was broken by the sound of two partially clothed bodies throwing themselves at the door of the decontamination chamber. With a quick smile and shrug, Bond headed to the door, spinning the release wheel and easing the gasket open. Two very thin, very animated and very under-dressed men tumbled out.

Bond snicked the zip ties with his pocketknife while Watson did a quick pulse and circulation check. “Any head injuries? Have you ingested anything since capture? Who is the current Prime Minister?”

“No, no, and who cares?” spat Sherlock, “and what took you so long. We’ve been in there for hours!”

“All normal then,” pronounced John, “clearly none the worse for wear. At least Himself is wearing pants this time.”

“And such a becoming color. Do you think the whole family is prone to the purple end of the spectrum or only these two?” asked James.

“I dunno, I can see Mycroft in mauve, can’t you?”

With that, the Holmes boys both flounced out with as much dignity as men without trousers can manage.

Anthea met them in the lobby of the ersatz pharmaceutical plant and they withstood a protracted debriefing, so to speak. John, with much regret, relinquished his lovely firearm. Sherlock and Cearbhall were offered pairs of trousers, acceptable at least for the nonce. They were at last deposited in an oversized black saloon as the driver took them homeward toward London.

James turned to John. “Shall I suggest your name to M, then, for the occasional strategic back up?”

Before John could offer a response, a dark, deep and excessively plummy voice pronounced, “He’s not available. He’s taken.”

“Taken, am I? Since when?”

“Since cabbies, since swimming pools and rooftops. Since we met!” asserted Sherlock.

“And what about you then?” asked John. “Are you taken as well? Since when?”

“Since you might take me,” offered Sherlock, his eyes skittering nervously away.

“Prove it then,” said John. And Sherlock did.

============================

Not beta'd or brit picked. All flaws my own. Please let me know if you find egregious errors. Thanks for reading!


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